Extraordinary Justice
by more-than-words
Summary: When the Diplomatic Security agent came into her office one evening with his gun drawn and a serious expression on his face, she thought it was an ill-timed security drill. Henry was waiting for her downstairs and she wanted to get home. Unfortunately, it wasn't a drill.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Madam Secretary. I'm doing this purely for my own amusement and entertainment (and, hopefully, a few readers' too).

 **Summary:** When the Diplomatic Security agent came into her office one evening with his gun drawn and a serious expression on his face, she thought it was an ill-timed security drill. Henry was waiting for her downstairs and she wanted to get home. Unfortunately, it wasn't a drill.

 **A/N:** Hi, everyone. This is the first fic I've done for this show, and the first fanfiction I've done for anything in about five years, and I'm really mega nervous about posting it, but I'm kinda curious as to what people think, so here you go. It's wildly unrealistic and unfeasible, would never happen and is probably mad (and I've probably got plenty of facts wrong), but that's why we love fanfiction, right? A brief chapter to start things off. Any feedback welcome :)

 **Chapter One**

"Oh God, I thought we'd never be able to leave." Elizabeth McCord exited the elevator and walked quickly back towards her office, intent on a brief swoop inside to collect some paperwork and find her coat before barrelling straight back out to go home for the night.

Blake was at her side, his arms laden with the Secretary of State's briefcase and a long, thin package that had been presented to Elizabeth twenty minutes earlier at a reception downstairs for the new Indonesian ambassador to the United States. "Well, you did an admirable job of covering your fatigue, Ma'am."

She looked up at him sharply. "Fatigue? Are you saying I look fatigued?"

Blake's eyes widened as he hurriedly backtracked. "Look fatigued? No. Absolutely not." He paused for a beat. "But I did see you conceal a yawn in the sleeve of your jacket."

Elizabeth stopped just outside her office. "Oh no, do you think the ambassador saw that?"

"Surely not." Blake reached around her to open the door.

"Really?" She went inside and headed straight for the desk to collect up the documents she needed to read before morning.

"No. He probably did."

"Great." She picked up her pile of papers and turned back to Blake. "You know, I actually used to enjoy bedtime reading before I took this job. Do you have my briefcase?"

"Ah, yes." Arms full, Blake carefully slid the briefcase out from the bottom of his burden and passed it to Elizabeth. As she reached to take it, Blake nearly lost his grasp on the gift from the Indonesian delegation, catching it just before it fell to the floor. "Oops, don't want to break your Batak dagger."

Elizabeth hadn't really been paying all that much attention to what she was being presented with by the new ambassador from Indonesia – too busy exchanging glances with her husband who had come along for the evening and wondering when she could feasibly slip away to go home with Henry without appearing rude – and she was still none the wiser. "What, exactly, is that?" she asked as she shoved things into her briefcase, her mind drifting to thoughts of climbing into bed with Henry as soon as they got home.

"An elaborate dagger – well, a short sword, really - worn by the adult males of the Batak tribe for ceremonial occasions," Blake replied.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Those ceremonial occasions being?" She shook her head. "Wait. No. I don't care. Just do something with it, would you? Put it… away. Somewhere."

"You mean you don't want to purchase it from the department for your own private entertainment and use?" Blake's tone was mock incredulous.

"I think I'll pass. Why do these people never bring me anything I can actually use? Like a new popcorn maker. Or a weekend in Barbados."

Blake laid the dagger on the couch before going to the closet to collect Elizabeth's dress coat, answering as he went. "A good question, Ma'am, one I'll be sure to raise with the gifts officer the next time I –"

He was cut off as the door opened and one of Elizabeth's Diplomatic Security agents hustled in, face serious, weapon drawn at his side. Time stalled.

Elizabeth felt the familiar jolt of adrenaline that occurred every time something like this happened, her heart rate speeding up until she could remind herself that there was unlikely to be a reason to panic. Probably just a minor security breach or a crazy person in the lobby downstairs. There had been a few incidents since she became Secretary, sending the building into annoying, interminable lockdown while the Diplomatic Security guys did their thing. Or it could be a drill no one had told her about, and someone would be getting an earful about that, for not giving her a chance to get out of the building for the night before they started practice exercises. She had very specific designs on her husband, who she had left to finish up a conversation downstairs while her detail went to get the car and she went to get her stuff. A security drill would be a massive, inconvenient delay to her romantic plans.

"What's going on, Peter?"

The burly agent ignored her question while he shut the door behind him and locked it. Elizabeth exchanged a sideways glance with Blake, who seemed similarly put-out by the intrusion on their plans to leave for the night. "There's something you should be aware of, Ma'am," Peter said.

Something in his tone caught at her. And that was when she realised the problem.

Usually in the event of a security breach or some other incident, protocol dictated that there would have been at least two agents come into her office, probably more. It meant they had back-up in case they needed it, and made the job of securing the room and the Secretary that much easier.

Peter Grosvenor was on his own.

And the rest of her security detail was downstairs with her husband and her motorcade.

Her adrenaline surged back, along with a whisper of creeping dread. "And what's that?" she queried. Casual. Just.

Maybe she was wrong. She was probably wrong. She hoped.

Peter turned away from the door and aimed his gun at her chest. "As of right now, Madam Secretary, you're my hostage."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so, so much for all the comments and alerts for the previous chapter. You all properly made my day. I hope you like this next instalment.**

 **Chapter Two**

OK… OK.

Hostage. He said hostage. Which meant he wasn't about to kill anyone, because a dead hostage would be no use to him. And he was calm, which meant he was unlikely to shoot on a whim.

But _he was calm_ , which suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

Hell, he was a Diplomatic Security agent who had decided to take the Secretary of State hostage. No way he didn't know what he was doing.

OK.

Elizabeth smiled, soft and curious. "Hostage?"

Get him talking, find out what he wants. Don't panic because it won't help anything, don't freak out in case it might provoke him. Her heart was pounding wildly and her hands were trembling ever so slightly as she clenched them into fists at her side, but she was sure that she looked calm and confident.

Unlike Blake, who looked like a baby deer standing in front of a lion.

She had to get him out of there.

She had to get them both out of there.

She wanted to go home and Henry was waiting for her downstairs.

 _Henry. Shit._

She knew she hadn't been able to keep the worry from her face when she thought about her husband and how he would be wondering pretty soon what was keeping her, but she hoped the expression had passed soon enough that Agent Grosvenor wouldn't notice to use it his advantage. Not that he needed another one. He was the one with the gun.

"Yeah, hostage," he replied to her question.

Elizabeth chuffed out a laugh, arms spread wide for a moment, unthreatening. Her spy training coming back to help her. "You wanna tell me why?"

This was ridiculous. It had to be a wind up.

If only the guy didn't look so damn serious.

Peter Grosvenor gestured at one of the visitor chairs with his gun. "Have a seat."

"No, thanks." She wanted to keep what control she had, thanks very much.

No dice. He strode towards her, intent written on his face. "Have a seat, Madam Secretary."

He started to reach for her but she complied before he could touch her, lifting her hands in a placating gesture as she lowered herself into the chair. "OK."

Blake took a step toward her, shifted his weight back then forwards again, uncertain, worry written plainly across his face. "Ma'am –"

She shook her head at him. "It's OK, Blake."

Agent Grosvenor was planted directly in front of her and spared only a brief glance over his shoulder at Blake. "Yeah, it's OK." His voice was a controlled sneer. He turned back to Elizabeth. "Hands behind the chair."

She was sure her heart was suspended in mid-air for a long, awful moment – right along with her disbelief - her breath paused in her lungs and everything still – except for the fear, which started a low roil deep in her gut. Then everything started again all at once and the blood was rushing in her ears and she wasn't actually sure what the man had said. "Excuse me?"

He leaned down and practically spat the words into her face as he enunciated clearly, so that she could not possibly fail to hear him. "Hands behind the chair."

Blake stepped forward, anger shaking visibly through him and spilling out over the top of the concern that hummed through him like a current. "No, you can't do that. Who the hell do you think you are, charging in here with a gun and –"

Agent Grosvenor swung round to point the gun at Blake, who stopped mid-sentence but did not lose the defiance from his eyes.

"I won't let you do this," Blake said, hands clenching into fists as he glared at Grosvenor.

Elizabeth was fully aware that there was no way her aide could keep his promise, but she loved him for making it nonetheless.

Grosvenor snorted and glanced back at Elizabeth, tilting his gun arm just slightly to make sure it caught her eye. "I won't tell you again," he said.

She gave herself a half-second to weigh her options.

Option one, chance defiance and refuse. Not with the gun on Blake. Option two, tackle the guy. He was way bigger than her but she might have chanced it - if not for the gun on Blake. Option three, query him, try again to get him talking. But again, the gun, and she didn't know what Blake was worth to him…

Option four, then. Damn.

Elizabeth slowly dropped her arms to her sides and then looped them behind the chair, keeping her actions deliberate and smooth. She focused on her breathing, on keeping it slow and regular, and tried not to notice the way that Blake was shaking his head at her, telling her without words not to follow the order, to take the risk, his panic palpable.

No way was she gambling with his life.

Agent Grosvenor stepped backwards and around the chair, keeping the gun trained on Blake until he was standing behind Elizabeth. She could feel the warmth of him standing close behind her, his breath against her hair as he slowly crouched down and turned the gun to touch gently at her temple. It was smooth and cool and made her feel queasy. "Don't move," he said to them both.

There was a pause while he dug in his pocket for something and then the gun was gone from her head but Grosvenor's hands were looping a plastic tie around her wrists and pulling it tight, tight enough that she couldn't keep in the hiss of discomfort or the reactive jerk away from him. His hand wrapped around her forearm prevented her from jerking far.

She needed to regain some control, fast. "I'm asking again," she said, in her best Secretary of State voice, the one she usually reserved for the Russians and Russell Jackson on a bad day and taking down assorted despots and bastards. "Why are you doing this?"

"You'll find out," Grosvenor said, straightening up and circling back around in front of her. He leaned down, leaned in close, whispered in her ear. "But first we're going to call the President."

* * *

She had said five minutes.

She had said five minutes fifteen minutes ago.

Henry McCord slumped back into his seat in the back of the SUV, checking his phone to see if his wife had called. Except he knew that she hadn't, because the phone hadn't rung.

"Guys, she did say five minutes, right?" he asked the two agents who sat in the front seat, waiting on their charge so they could leave.

One of the agents laughed. "Yeah. But Secretary time rather than normal time, so…"

"Right." He shouldn't be surprised. Someone had probably stopped her to talk or something had cropped up that she had to deal with before she left the office. She was probably on her way down. She would've called if she was going to be held up for long.

Henry hoped that she appeared soon; he'd seen her sneaking glances at him all through that formal reception for the Indonesian ambassador and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't sneaking glances right back at her. He was pretty sure there'd been at least a couple of saucy thoughts running through her head while she was supposed to be listening to the ambassador speak, and he was looking forward to getting her home to find out what they were. Maybe trying them out for real…

He was distracted from his thoughts by another one of Elizabeth's agents leaning in through the car's open window to speak lowly to the guys in the front.

The two guys exchanged glances and the driver said to the guy outside, "Haven't seen him."

The response was too quiet for Henry to hear properly, but he was pretty certain that the third guy swore. He was even more certain that he hadn't been given the answer he was hoping for.

"Is everything OK?" he asked.

The driver looked back at Henry. "Everything's fine, Dr McCord."

There was nothing in his tone to suggest otherwise, but there was something in the expression on the third guy's face that made a small seed of concern take root in Henry's stomach.

He covered it up with fake exasperation. "God, sometimes I think my wife actually prefers her work to me. What's keeping her?"

Probably nothing. She'd be there soon.

Henry settled back to wait.

* * *

"You know," Elizabeth said as casually as she could manage, hoping for off-the-cuff and landing somewhere roughly in the ballpark, "the President doesn't negotiate with terrorists."

Agent Peter Grosvenor was behind the desk, doing something on the computer. He looked up and smiled at her. "He'll take the call."

"I don't know, it's pretty late. He's probably asleep."

"No, he was hosting a meeting in preparation for the WTO talks next month, doing some schmoozing. He's scheduled in the office until midnight."

"Doesn't mean he'll take the call."

That smile again. "He'll take the call."

Yeah, Elizabeth knew that he would. She didn't know whether it was something to be grateful for.

There was a pause while Grosvenor worked the computer, the tapping of keys and the ocean rush of blood in Elizabeth's head providing the only soundtrack. She was aware of Blake standing tense and still on the other side of the office, could feel him watching her as she watched Grosvenor.

After a minute, Grosvenor looked up and gestured to the computer. "I need you to do this."

Elizabeth awkwardly lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Well, I would but, you know, in case you forgot, I'm a bit tied up right now." The plastic cable tie was biting into her wrists; it wasn't as though she could forget that fact.

The gun swung round to Blake again. "You. You're going to dial the President for me and then you're very quietly going to leave this room, do you understand?"

Blake was quick to interject. "I'm not leaving the Secretary."

Sweet, lovely boy. Sweet, lovely, wrong boy.

Maybe she should argue to keep Blake in the room. They'd have more of a chance at overpowering Grosvenor together, and Blake gave her an ally and protection that she was sure the rest of her security detail and her husband would appreciate. Maybe she should want to keep him.

But he was a risk, and Grosvenor only needed the one hostage. He might decide that the two of them were too much to control together, or that having a spare gave him licence to do something stupid. Elizabeth couldn't risk Blake's life like that.

"It's OK, Blake, just do as he says."

"Ma'am." Blake shook his head, unable to find the words to express himself but obviously in disagreement with her.

"Listen to your boss," Grosvenor ordered. "Dial the President. Then leave the room. Then you're going to go downstairs and you're going to talk to the Secretary's security detail, because they're probably wondering where she is by now. You're going to tell them that I have the Secretary, and if they come upstairs, if they come and try to get in here, if they try and mount a rescue or to take me out or bother us in any way, they're going to regret it. Do you understand? You're going to tell them to do nothing. The Secretary's life depends on it."

Elizabeth watched Blake think it through. She would order him out if she had to but she'd much rather he reached the conclusion by himself. She saw the moment he realised he had to leave the room, that if he didn't, her security and husband would no doubt come looking for her before long and might cause Grosvenor to do something stupid.

He said nothing, but Blake gave a slight nod and then moved to stand next to Grosvenor in front of the computer to place the call.

"Put the call in to Russell Jackson's office," Elizabeth said. She hoped that by going through Russell, he could act as a brake for the President if it turned out he needed one once they found out whatever it was Grosvenor was after. Conrad was her friend, and his judgement might be clouded by emotion. She had no such concerns about Russell.

Blake glanced up at her in acknowledgement and then did as he was told. Grosvenor watched him closely, no doubt memorising the numbers and passcodes required to place a secure video call to the office of the White House Chief of Staff.

"Turn the monitor to face the Secretary," Grosvenor instructed once Blake had set up the call ready to connect.

Blake complied with shaking hands.

"Now go." Grosvenor jammed the gun into the small of Blake's back and marched him to the door with a heavy directing hand on his shoulder. The agent unlocked the door, opened it partway and pushed Blake through the gap.

Blake turned back just as the door was shutting in his face. "Ma'am –" he started.

She didn't get to hear what he had been planning to say next, his words covered by the sound of the heavy door closing and locking, shutting her in alone with Grosvenor.

"Alone at last," Grosvenor said, strolling back to the desk and tapping the key to connect the call to the White House.

He moved back to Elizabeth while they waited, stopping behind her and leaning down so that he could band one arm tightly across her chest, the gun back at her temple and his face pressed close to hers. She fought to quell the nausea and rising anxiety and did her very best not to think about Blake going downstairs to tell her agents and her husband – her _husband_ – that she was being held hostage by one of the men who had been assigned to protect her.

Damn, she'd be talking to Grosvenor about how _that_ worked later.

The call connected and Russell Jackson's annoyed face appeared on the monitor. "Elizabeth, what is it? It's late, and – oh, shit."

Russell froze, not blinking, not breathing as he stared at Elizabeth and Grosvenor.

Grosvenor's face was so close to Elizabeth's that she could feel his smile stretch across his cheeks. "Good evening, Russell. I'd like to speak to the President. Would you be so good as to get him?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Once again, a massive THANK YOU for all the kind comments. I'm so glad that people are keen to see where this is going – truth be told, so am I. This time we have the introduction of a plot point I am sure I'll come to regret in three chapters' time when I have to come up with a plausible explanation.**

 **Also, my very important research for this chapter included Googling 'does the US use the phrase** ** _in the shit_** **'** **. Google was inconclusive, so I just went with it.**

 **Hope you enjoy :)**

 **Chapter Three**

The little seed of concern inside him had started to grow as he watched three of Elizabeth's Diplomatic Security agents gather by the door to the State Department, their gestures growing increasingly uncontrolled and their voices less restrained.

Henry only caught snippets of the conversation, but it was enough to give him the idea that one of their number was unaccounted for.

"… on shift from eight…"

"… clock in?"

"Yeah, he did, see?"

"… not answering." One of the agents was on his phone, shaking his head.

It was enough to cause a general sense of concern, but Henry didn't connect it directly to his wife until he saw Blake coming across the lobby, the young man's jaw set firm, his stride quick and purposeful but something in his face, in the way he nervously shook his hands by his sides as he walked, suggesting that something was not right.

Blake caught his gaze as he approached the door and his mouth fell slack at the sight of Henry, like he'd just been emotionally sucker-punched. His step faltered for a moment.

On instinct, Henry was out of the car before the agents in the front could even turn to look at what he was doing. The action seemed to spur Blake on because he stumbled to the door and then through it, looking between Henry and the little cluster of agents like he wasn't quite sure who to go to.

His arrival broke up the agents' huddle and they all turned to look at him.

Elizabeth's driver was getting out of the car, saying to Henry, "Dr McCord –"

"Blake, what happened?" Henry said, crossing the couple of steps across the sidewalk to reach the man.

There was a pause while Blake took a couple of breaths to steady himself and Henry felt the pressure building in his chest, behind his eyes, as he forced himself to wait for the answer.

It turned out he couldn't wait. "Where's Elizabeth?" he blurted.

"Upstairs," Blake said, his voice hollow. "She's…" He started speaking fast and quiet, frantic even as he appeared tightly wound with control. "I'm so sorry, Dr McCord, I should have stayed there but she told me to go, to do what he said. I should have stayed but if I had then you would have come to find her and he said that we would regret that. He –"

"Blake." Henry cut him off with a firm hand on his shoulder, anchoring the younger man and forcing him to focus. "Where is my wife?"

Henry would swear for the rest of his life that he actively felt every fraction of every second in the beat between his question and Blake's answer.

"She's upstairs, being held hostage by DS Agent Peter Grosvenor."

* * *

"You gonna tell me what this is all about?" Elizabeth felt the need to fill the dead air while a quietly perturbed Russell went off to find the President and give him the good news that the Secretary of State was in the shit – and let him know that he had a phone call that he might want to think about taking.

Grosvenor shifted his grip on her. "Patience," he said, the huff of his breath disturbing her hair.

"OK, so you want to tell me who you're working for?" The general rule was that the hostage taker was not the top of the chain of command. The general rule was that the hostage taker was expendable.

"Be quiet."

Not a command Elizabeth ever took that well to. "You know there're only two ways you're leaving this room, right?"

The arm across her chest tightened and the gun at her temple pressed uncomfortably into her skin, forcing her head to the side. "Shut up, Madam Secretary."

There was the sound of a door opening from the monitor and Elizabeth looked back at the screen to see Russell re-enter, followed swiftly by President Dalton.

The President did a slight double-take as his gaze fell on the screen, his eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before he recovered admirably quickly and smoothly made his way to Russell's desk, taking a seat in front of the screen. He ignored the man with the gun and focused on Elizabeth. "Bess, you OK?" he said.

She thought momentarily about making a joke about her ruined evening plans, but the pressure of the gun digging into her and the unwanted arm holding her in place put paid to that pretty fast. "Yeah."

"Good." Conrad's face was stern, all business.

Good.

"Now tell me, what is this?"

The question was probably aimed at her new friend, but Elizabeth answered before he could. "This is Diplomatic Security Agent Peter Grosvenor."

Get the name out there in case Grosvenor wasn't planning on doing it himself, give them the chance to start digging to see what they could find.

The President nodded. "Agent Grosvenor. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you're fired."

Elizabeth saw a smirk cross Russell Jackson's face as he stood behind the President. She was pretty sure she could guess what he was thinking. _Fired – and probably a dead man._ For some reason, it comforted her a little.

Comforted by Russell Jackson. Yeah, she was screwed.

"Why don't you tell me what it is that you want." Conrad leaned forward into the camera, fixing Grosvenor with a look he wouldn't be able to look away from even through the screen.

"I want you to do something for me."

The President said nothing. He was a CIA man, and a good politician. He knew how to play this game. He wasn't about to cede any more control than had already been lost by taking the bait and _asking_ the crazy hostage-taker how he, the President, could help.

Grosvenor's breath against her ear was all Elizabeth could hear for the long moments it took President Dalton to wait out the Diplomatic Security agent gone rogue. She desperately wanted Henry.

She didn't want Henry anywhere near this.

He would most likely know by now.

Oh God. He'd be worried.

Finally, Grosvenor capitulated, except that it wasn't a capitulation, not really. They all knew that he held all the cards. He was the only one who knew his plan. "I want you to go public about Montaña Casillas, Mr President. And while you're deciding how you're going to do that, I'm going to keep the Secretary here with me. To remind you that you need to stay focused, OK? And so that she can help."

The gun twisted against her temple and the tie around her wrists bit sharply at her skin as Grosvenor leaned over her to smile into the camera. Elizabeth's breath caught involuntarily in her throat. She hoped the President hadn't noticed.

No such luck. His eyes were on her, just soft enough that she knew that he was worried. He swallowed. "Bess-"

Russell reached out to touch the President's arm and make him shut his mouth.

It wouldn't do to let the man with the gun see him sentimental.

"We'll speak in one hour," Grosvenor said. "I hope you'll have an update for me then, gentlemen. Good evening."

He reached around Elizabeth to shut off the video call before Russell or Conrad could answer. The screen went dark. Grosvenor stood up, moved a couple of steps away.

Elizabeth allowed herself a small moment of relief.

 _Just_ a small moment. _Montaña Casillas._ Shit.

Montaña Casillas was before her time as Secretary of State but, yeah, she was sure that was something that was never going to go public, at any cost.

And that gave her a problem.


	4. Chapter 4

**You guys continue to be awesome. Thanks for the lovely comments, this is such a nice fandom.**

 **And now we have Henry and the President being cross and worried. Hope it's OK!**

 **Chapter Four**

It wasn't like when Elizabeth had gone to Iran, when he had carried her absence and his worry around inside of him like an abscess. It wasn't like the cliché, either. Henry didn't feel as though the bottom had dropped out of his world at the news.

No. Instead it was as though life had been suspended and it would not restart until he knew that his wife was safe, because this could not possibly be real.

The minutes after Blake gave them the news were something of a blur to Henry.

He remembered saying lowly, "She's what?" His tone had been deep and dangerous and he was practically vibrating as his protective instincts kicked in.

"Being held hostage," Blake had repeated, apology written all over his face.

Then Henry had spent a while in disbelief. He remembered repeating the word _hostage_ quite a few times with increasing levels of volume, until the fact had sunk in. Then he had spent some time not being able to think at all, completely paralysed at the thought of Elizabeth being in danger, and him not being there to help her.

Then all he could think was _help her_ , but the instant he moved to barge past the agents, Elizabeth's driver grabbed him, saying, "Oh, no, you don't. Sorry, Dr McCord."

"Let me _go._ " Henry had struggled violently against the grip, intent on sprinting into the building and kicking down all the doors he needed to in order to get to his wife, but the driver had wrestled him back. Then he had fixed him with a look and the sincerity of the man's apology and the genuine emotion in his eyes had snapped Henry back into himself and he let himself be moved a few steps away from the door. He had listened to one of the agents as he quizzed Blake about the situation upstairs, and watched as another sidled a few steps away so that he could place a call, no doubt to tell his supervisor that everything had gone to hell.

As soon as the guy hung up the call, they had all snapped into action and the building was placed under an evacuation order followed by complete lockdown.

The driver was still stood by Henry but he broke away momentarily so the agent in charge could speak to him. Then he said, "Dr McCord, I need you to come with me." He looked at Blake. "You too, Mr Moran."

Henry shook his head and planted his stance, not budging. "I'm not going anywhere without my wife."

"Sir, I need to take you to a secure location."

"This is secure. You're here. I bet any minute now some snipers are going to be here. Your supervisors are going to be here, hell, the CIA, the Army, whoever the hell you can call to get down here is going to be here. I'm pretty sure this location is secure."

"I need you to come with me." The agent was obviously readying himself to bodily force Henry to comply if he had to.

Henry dug in, arms folded across his chest. "I need to be here for my wife."

"You need to stay safe for your wife."

Oh, that was low. Hitting a man where it hurt and catching him off guard for just long enough that the agent was able to firmly take Henry's arm and guide him into the back of the SUV, followed with similar reluctance by Blake. The door was slammed and locked before Henry could finish his thought of _but what if she needs me?_

He couldn't leave her.

Too late.

Henry was filled with hot white panic, unable to focus his thoughts as the car peeled away from the building.

They had been driving for almost a minute when Blake shifted over to speak so that the agents in front couldn't hear. "The guy who has her is a Diplomatic Security agent," he whispered.

Henry quirked an eyebrow in response. "Yeah?"

Blake glanced at the agents driving them away from the State Department. "I'm just saying, are we sure that we can trust them?"

He didn't even want to go there. "Yes," he said, with a conviction he only partly felt. "We have to."

His wife's life might depend on it.

* * *

The mood in the Oval Office was stormy to say the least, and President Conrad Dalton was sure he had not covered himself in glory during his meeting with the head of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. There was still a fleck of spittle on his chin from when he had yelled at the man about one of his agents going off the reservation and holding a _gun to Elizabeth's head_ , and he cared hardly at all that the Chair of the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Advisor had entered the room halfway through his rant. He had hardly paused for breath.

Thirty three minutes into Agent Grosvenor's allotted hour of time and Russell was just closing the door on the backs of their guests as they rushed off to coordinate a response to the Montaña Casillas problem and try and get some eyes inside the State Department – and in the case of the head of Diplomatic Security, to work frantically to save his job.

President Dalton wiped his chin to hide the evidence, but not fast enough, because Russell turned just in time to see him. His eyes flicked to the President's hand and he opened his mouth to speak.

"Don't say anything."

He could see Russell's urge to comment on the President's loud outburst, could see the tiny hint of amusement in his Chief of Staff's eyes at the sight of the President losing it so completely, but Russell was not a stupid man and he knew that Conrad was balancing on a knife edge. He spread his arms wide and said, "Saying nothing, sir."

"Good." The President turned his back on Russell to lean his hands against the sturdy surface of the Resolute desk, head bowed, breathing deep. He needed just a moment. Time was racing away and he was not even close to finding a workable solution that both kept Bess safe and kept the secrets of Montaña Casillas.

 _What a mess_.

Ultimately his mess.

It was his fault.

Russell cleared his throat. "I'm sorry but I actually can't say nothing, sir. We don't have long until Agent Living on a Prayer calls us for an update and somehow I don't think he's going to accept radio silence."

"Tell me the facts, Russell." He kept his back to his Chief of Staff. It made it the slightest bit easier to hear what he knew were the really crummy facts, chief among which was the fact that his old friend was in trouble and he wasn't sure how he was going to get her out of it.

There was the sound of Russell pacing the carpet as he spoke. "We can't go public about Montaña Casillas. We just can't."

"Can't we?" He didn't know why he said it.

"You know we can't, Mr President. Elizabeth knows we can't."

"Elizabeth wasn't even Secretary at the time."

The response was silence but President Dalton could predict with great accuracy the exasperated expression that would currently be gracing Russell Jackson's face.

"Go on, Russell. Let's focus on the short term for now. We have a deadline to meet." It was one appointment he would absolutely not be late for.

Russell's indecision was audible.

"Spit it out, Russell."

"We don't negotiate with terrorists, sir."

President Dalton spun around. "No, we don't." He was aware that he did not sound convincing. He knew that this was why he had Russell, to force him to remember the key tenets of his role when he was blindsided by affection for a friend, but currently he had no appreciation for him.

"Doesn't mean we don't have a way out, sir. Just means we don't know what it is yet."

"So what do we do for now?"

Russell thought for a moment. "We look into the Montaña Casillas issue. Test the waters – quietly – with our key contacts, see what the appetite is. Sound out how in theory one might go public with such a thing, evaluate the possible consequences. See what the feeling is. _Quietly_. See if we can't buy ourselves a bit of time with Grosvenor to diffuse the situation."

The President nodded. If they could only buy time they could plan a way to get Bess out and deal with everything else after. But. "What if he doesn't go for it?"

Russell deflected. "Ah, that comes next." He shrugged.

"Yes, it does come next." _He has Elizabeth_ was left unspoken. There was a lot that they were very conspicuously choosing not to say.

 _What is Grosvenor going to do?_

"We need to do something about Diplomatic Security protection," Russell said, not even trying to find a smooth segue for his change in conversation topic.

In response, Conrad didn't even try and pretend he wasn't annoyed at the abrupt shift, his emotions written all over his face. "Like what?"

"Like make sure that this is a one-off? That it's just one rogue guy and not a wider infestation?"

"That's not a job for the next twenty minutes, Russell."

"No, but protecting everyone covered by Diplomatic Security is."

He had a point. Until they could take the time to verify that Agent Grosvenor was a single bad apple, they needed to put a temporary solution in place. The President conceded the point. "OK. Reach out to the Secret Service. Very discreetly reach out. See if they can't send some guys to bolster current diplomatic protection. Don't stand down DS. That would be too noisy and likely unnecessary. Just… get some back-up. Some oversight."

"Yes, sir."

Russell nodded and paused a moment to see if the President had anything else to say.

He had plenty, but he chose to bite his tongue. They didn't have the time to get into everything that was going through his head right now.

The Chief of Staff turned on his heel and headed for the door, pulling it open just as Henry McCord barrelled through from the other side, followed closely by two Diplomatic Security agents, one of Elizabeth's staff and the President's own personal aide, who was in the middle of being ignored as she protested, "The President is not to be disturbed."

Conrad held his hands up. He should have seen this one coming. "That's OK, Sherry. He can come in."

Henry pulled away from the agent who had tried to drag him back, marching into the room and stopping a metre in front of the President. He was obviously frantic, and in no way about to back down. "What do you know?" he demanded. "What do you know about what's happening to Elizabeth? Is she OK?"

"Henry, take a breath," Conrad said. "She's OK. Come and sit down."

"How do you know? How do you know she's OK?"

He led Henry to sit on a couch but the man refrained, choosing to remain standing, filled with too much nervous energy to be still.

"There was a video call," Russell answered.

Henry snapped around to stare at Russell. "A call? You have a recording?"

President Dalton stepped towards him. "Yes, but –"

"Show me."

The last thing they needed was Henry McCord on the warpath after seeing the video call of Elizabeth with Agent Grosvenor. Then again, that ship had pretty much already sailed, probably the moment the man was told about his wife.

Russell started to speak. "Dr McCord, I don't think that –"

"Show me." God, he was desperate. Behind the barely controlled rage was a man seconds away from crying with worry.

The President nodded to Russell. "It's OK. Let the man see his wife."

He just hoped that recording would be the worst thing any of them had to deal with before the night was out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Someone raised a good point in the comments of how did Henry go from cooperating with the DS guys to exploding into the Oval Office – basically, the White House is the secure location they were off to, and once he was in there let us just say that he was a man on a mission. Should have put a line in to explain that, but I got excited about the prospect of shouting, sorry.**

 **This time! Henry is many emotions, and Elizabeth employs a risky strategy.**

 **Small warning for a bit of violence.**

 **Chapter Five**

In rooms all around him, important work was being done and decisions were being made that could affect his family for the rest of their lives, but right at that moment, all Henry could focus on was the recording of the video call playing on the screen in front of him.

Russell Jackson had offered the use of his office and then had tactfully retreated – no, more like disappeared, sharpish – leaving Henry alone.

He had watched the video three times already and had just set it up to play for a fourth. It was a compulsion.

He was relieved that Elizabeth seemed to be unharmed, but that was of little comfort when there was still the matter of the big guy behind her with his arm tight across her body like a vice, and his face way too close to hers for Henry's liking.

And, he imagined, hers.

Not to mention the _gun against her head_. His knuckles had turned white as he clenched his fists at the first sight of the metal pressing against her skin, and hadn't let up since.

Elizabeth's face was impassive in the video, but he knew her well enough to see the anxiety hovering just below the surface. The quiet catch of her breath when Grosvenor awkwardly leaned over her made Henry's face crumple at his own powerlessness to help. He thought that Elizabeth's arms were tied behind her back. He really hoped that they managed to take Grosvenor alive so that he could ask for a few minutes alone with the man. They had some business to discuss.

Sure, he knew Elizabeth could take care of herself. She was tough, and smart as hell and would no doubt be formulating a game plan of her own to get out, one that would more likely than not be way more successful than any plan anyone else could come up with. That didn't change the fact that she was his wife, and no one harmed his wife.

Yeah, Henry was very interested in talking to Agent Grosvenor.

He was also very interested in talking to President Dalton about the agent's demand. It was the big unanswered question that his family's lives now depended on. _What the hell had happened on Moñtana Casillas?_

* * *

The clock on the wall wasn't right. It couldn't be. Time kept speeding up so that ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye, but then slowed right back down so that she felt each second with excruciating clarity.

And her companion wasn't much of a conversationalist.

Elizabeth McCord shifted in her chair, trying to get comfortable. She wasn't sure why she was bothering. It wasn't possible to be comfortable, probably wouldn't be good to be comfortable. At least the discomfort kept her focused, kept her wary. Made her think.

She watched Peter Grosvenor as he helped himself to her computer, apparently accessing whatever it was he wanted with ease despite the security measures in place.

Well, sure. Because she'd as good as told Blake to log him right on in to call the President, hadn't she? Not forgetting that the guy had a high level security clearance all of his own as a result of his job.

That reminded her.

"What makes a guy like you turn against his country?" Elizabeth asked, drawing Grosvenor's attention away from the monitor and back over to her.

"What?"

"I'm just saying. You didn't get where you are on a whim. So what makes you turn against your country?"

The little voice in the back of her head was whispering _Montaña Casillas might do it_ , but she ignored it. She was doing her best to avoid that particular giant elephant in the room until she knew how the President was intending to play his hand.

Grosvenor stood and made his way around the desk to stand in front of her. "I haven't turned against my country."

"Well, I would have to disagree, because you're committing treason right now. I told you earlier. There are only two ways you're leaving this room. You know what they are?"

The man smiled his funny, controlled smile. "In handcuffs or on a gurney."

Damn him for ruining her punchline. He hadn't even hesitated. Elizabeth's confidence faltered just a little bit. "Right."

"I know what I'm doing, Madam Secretary."

"You're not going to get what you want." Admitting it out loud made it real. There was every chance that she was right. Grosvenor would not get what he wanted. But if he didn't get what he wanted, she wasn't entirely sure where that left her. She didn't particularly want to head down that cheery road of thoughts.

No answer. Grosvenor turned his back on her and started back to the desk.

For some reason she couldn't stop herself from goading him, wanted to get a rise out of him, to prove that she could make him crack. That he was not as in control of the situation as he was trying to make out. "It must be something pretty important to you, to sacrifice your life to it. Did they tell you that, when you signed up to whatever cause you think you're fighting for? Did they tell you that you'd be the scapegoat in this situation? That the best you can hope for is to go on trial for treason, but that the more likely outcome is that you're leaving this room with a sniper's bullet in your brain? Did you agree to this knowingly or have you lost your mind?"

"Shut up." The words were bitten out, harsh and short. A warning.

Elizabeth ignored it, unable to stop now, the fear and anger that had been balled up inside her for the past hour spilling out in an invective part of her knew she should hold back. She was making him angry. And if he was angry he would be unpredictable. "See, you think you have the power here. But you don't."

Grosvenor snarled, taking a couple of steps towards her, his presence looming. "Seems to me that I do, sweetheart."

She was straining against the bonds at her wrists, leaning forward in her chair despite some primitive instinct urging her to shrink back, determined to prove the man wrong, unwilling to give into the urge to panic. "No. Because I think someone is pulling your strings. And because the President can say no to you. And because you know as well as I do that there's no way in _hell_ you're getting out of here with everything in your life intact."

There was no time to see it coming. Grosvenor's fist connected with the side of her face swift and hard, jerking her head to the side as his knuckles collided with her cheekbone and his thumbnail caught at the soft flesh of her lip, splitting it open and welling blood to the surface. Her ears were ringing from the force of the impact and her vision swayed wildly. She felt nauseated.

It hurt, but it was the shock of it rather than the pain that stilled her in her seat.

Grosvenor bent down to grip her hair tightly in his hand and hissed close to her face, "I told you to shut up."

He let her go and went back behind the desk. Elizabeth looked back at the clock on the wall. The hands wouldn't come into focus no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on them. She didn't try for long. She didn't need to see them properly to know that the hour was almost up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you once again for all the lovely comments and alerts. I'd write this anyway for my own amusement, but I'm so glad to know that people are enjoying coming along for the ride.**

 **Feeling the need to reassert the disclaimer here that I own nothing and this is all fictional and made up and never happened and stuff, because today we find out what happened on (the totally made up) Montaña Casillas. One of my very favourite things about Madam Secretary (apart from the epic cuddles, obvs) is the fact it isn't afraid to explore the grey areas; we have some here, too. Bit nervous about this one. Don't leave me, guys.**

 **I only started writing this story to get to the fluff, and now I'm embroiled in a small plotty international fiasco. Oops. Enjoy!**

 **Chapter Six**

Ten minutes to go until Grosvenor made his next phone call to the Office of the Chief of Staff.

He had left her alone after he had hit her, in fact had hardly seemed to notice her continued presence as he took back up at the computer, intent on whatever it was he was doing.

Elizabeth took the opportunity to assess things.

Once the initial shock wore off, she was pleased to find that the nausea had mostly dissipated and she was able to see straight again. The ringing in her ears had diminished, but there was a background hum that told her something wasn't entirely right. Perhaps a mild concussion. The right side of her face felt swollen and generally uncomfortable, and she could feel a bone-deep ache taking hold where Grosvenor's fist had connected with her cheekbone.

The thing that was bothering her most was the small trail of blood that was trickling from her busted lip and down her chin. It was itchy, and driving her mad, but with her hands behind her back she couldn't scratch it. She awkwardly raised one shoulder to wipe her chin on the silk of her blouse. It jostled her face and caused her to hiss with the sudden pain.

Grosvenor didn't even look up.

Elizabeth settled back into the chair and continued taking stock.

Apart from the hit and the tie around her wrists that she was pretty sure was doing something not great to her circulation, she felt mostly OK, considering. The adrenaline was still helping her out and she had plenty to think about to help stay alert and keep her mind off the alternative, which was to panic uncontrollably.

There were big things to think about, like what the President was going to do, and then there were the smaller things. Like the fact that Grosvenor was left-handed. He held his gun in his left hand, favoured his left hand for using the computer – hit with his left hand.

Every bit of information helped, especially if in the end it boiled down to a fight or flight situation. She could use that.

And, oh great, he was up from the desk and coming back towards her. He stopped a few feet from her chair and held up his phone.

She didn't realise what he was doing until he actually did it.

Elizabeth blinked and squinted as the flash went off on the camera phone and she instinctively turned her face away from the light. "What are you doing?"

The phone lowered. Grosvenor stared at her in silence.

"If you're planning on making a ransom demand, you forget. You already did that."

Oh yeah. He had already made one hell of a ransom demand, and Elizabeth was pretty sure that the price he had set was way too high.

"It's not for that," Grosvenor replied evenly. "Or, I should say, it's not entirely for that."

"So what is it for?" Any information she could get out of him was useful information.

"It's to remind the President that he has a job to do. And people are waiting for him to do it."

* * *

President Conrad Dalton was not convinced that this was the best time to be having a conference about how something might _look_ , but it seemed to be happening nonetheless.

"We should take the call in the Situation Room, show him who's boss." That was the Secretary of Defence.

He wondered if the man would feel the same conviction over that particular strategy if he had been taken hostage, his life in the balance, and his own department occupied by a madman.

Thankfully – slightly surprisingly – Russell stepped up to knock him down. "And give Grosvenor something to prove? No. He knows the game."

"Exactly," protested the Secretary of Defence. "He knows the game. It's not going to make him panic and do something stupid if we speak to him from the Sit Room, but it shows him who is really in control."

"We're not doing it in the Situation Room," President Dalton said. In the Situation Room, there would be too many voices. Too many people watching him. If he was going to make a mistake – and he was certain that whichever way he went he would be making a mistake of some kind – he'd rather not do it with that big an audience. Besides, he didn't want to give Grosvenor any incentive to try and reassert his own control; there was no way that would end well for Elizabeth.

Russell held up his hand before the Secretary could protest again. "We'll compromise," he said. "We'll move to the Situation Room if and when it becomes operationally relevant, OK? For now, we're just having a chat with the guy. Nothing heavy."

The President nodded. "Agreed." They'd all still be able to watch the live stream and the subsequent recording, after all.

Sometimes he really wasn't sure what he thought about the wonders of technology.

Russell looked at his watch. "Eight minutes."

"Could Russell and I have the room, please?"

The assorted officials and generals filed out, leaving the President alone with his Chief of Staff.

Conrad scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He was tired. His day had started before six in the morning and it was getting late. He was used to the long days, but the stress and the personal nature of this latest situation was weighing on him. He had to keep it together. "I might need you, Russell, to rein me in if I… well, if I need you to rein me in."

The reply was not as immediate as he might have expected. "I will, Mr President."

With a few minutes to spare before their appointed phone call, the President sat down in one of the armchairs and rested his elbows on his knees. He gestured for Russell to join him on the adjoining sofa. "Tell me, Russell, what happens if we go public with Montaña Casillas?"

"You want the end game, Mr President, or the play by play?"

"Both."

"The end game is your resignation, best case scenario."

It was what he had predicted. The curious part of him wanted to know if Russell's opinion also matched his on the other end of the spectrum. "Worst case?"

"You want to play worst case right now, when Elizabeth's in trouble?"

Fair point. There were plenty of worst case options on the table, none of them bearing thinking about. "No."

Damn, he really hated his predecessor, leaving him this mess to deal with.

If only he'd acted to clean it up sooner, before it got out of hand.

His own stupid fault.

Russell settled back into his seat and picked up the half glass of scotch he had poured for himself upon arrival of their visitors, a direct response to the grim expressions on their faces. "So, the play by play of going public."

"Yes. The bullet point version, if you will. We are on the clock here."

"Well, the good news is that it's been an open secret for years that we used Montaña Casillas for rendition flights."

When that was the good news, it was obvious that this was not going to be an enjoyable breakdown of action.

Russell drank some more scotch. "So that lays the groundwork a little. We'd take a hit and plenty of our allies would slam us on the world stage, but no one would be surprised. The British would be pissed because it's their territory and they'd be in the dock with us on the rendition thing. But we could weather it. The practice has been discontinued. It's history now and there've been enough leaks and internet rumours that it's practically public anyway."

The President nodded. So far he agreed with Russell's assessment. So far so terrible, but probably not fatal. "But that's not the crucial point."

"Oh, you mean the thing where we didn't just use it for rendition flights and for a period of months had a secret detention centre in an air hangar there that no one else knew about and it was used to – shall we say - _interrogate_ people and it turned out that one of those people was not a terrorist and was, in fact, entirely innocent and a minor to boot?" Russell knocked back the rest of his scotch and would have undoubtedly poured another if not for the fact that he needed to keep his wits about him.

The President had felt his annoyance building during Russell's blasé soliloquy and was barely able to keep a lid on it as he pressed his fingers into a steeple and said, "Yes, that."

Russell sniffed. "You want to know how that plays out?"

"Yes."

Russell snorted. "Well, I'd get down on your knees for starters."

"OK." Conrad stood, unable to sit through any more.

"You asked the question, sir."

He sighed. "I know."

"But before we get to that, on a more immediate note, what do you want to tell the press, Mr President?"

The press. He had forgotten about the press. There was no way they would be able to keep secret the situation at the State Department, not with the high profile evacuation and heavy official and armed presence right outside the building, and not with all the subsequent late night activity going down at the White House. "One thing at a time, Russell. Phone call first. Then we'll make a decision about the press."

"We need to get on top of this, Mr President."

"You think I don't know that?" If he shouted the majority of that sentence then oh well. Russell could take it. Conrad stopped and took a breath. "I have an idea."

* * *

The chime from the computer caught Elizabeth by surprise – and, it seemed, Agent Peter Grosvenor.

The man had been standing in the corner of the office with his back to Elizabeth, head bowed and doing she didn't know what. Elizabeth had been lost in her thoughts, thinking about strategy, trying to decide which of Grosvenor's buttons it might be worth the risk to push.

"What's that?" Grosvenor demanded, swinging back round to face her at the sound, his gun pulled from his holster and raised to point at her on instinct.

He'd been doing that so much since he arrived that now staring down the barrel of the gun failed to shock her. Elizabeth cleared her throat before she spoke. She was starting to feel thirsty and her mouth was uncomfortably dry. "That would be an incoming video call."

She would bet any money that she knew who was on the other end of the line. And oh, that was clever. A small way to turn the tables, perhaps, but that didn't lessen its effectiveness.

There was a brief moment when Grosvenor appeared visibly thrown, indecision passing across his features and then disappearing almost as fast as it had arrived to leave his controlled mask back in place. He held his gun on Elizabeth as he crossed the room to the desk, using his free hand to spin the monitor back round to face her.

The chime continued, growing louder and more insistent the longer the caller was kept waiting.

Grosvenor tapped the keyboard to answer the call and then walked backwards away from the desk, taking up his place behind Elizabeth once again, his arm back across her chest and the gun levelled at her head.

"Mr President," Grosvenor greeted, a calm smile on his face.

President Dalton ignored him, dismay written across his features as he looked at Elizabeth.

Oh yeah, she had briefly forgotten about her face. "Hi, Conrad. Russell."

Russell Jackson was standing behind the President, his expression unreadable. He shifted slightly and Elizabeth guessed that he was placing a steadying hand on the man's back. "This was not part of the deal," the President bit out, his eyes still fixed on Elizabeth's face.

She caught his gaze, willing him to drop it, not wanting it to be a thing. Grosvenor didn't need any more weaknesses to seize on.

"Oh, but you haven't agreed to any deal yet, Mr President," Grosvenor said.

"We're currently looking into your demand." It was a bland statement, noncommittal, and it didn't give Elizabeth much to work with once the call came to an end and she was left once again to deal with Grosvenor on her own. Then again, it wasn't a flat out refusal. It gave her some room to work.

"I'll be making sure that you are."

"Excuse me?"

"It's something the Secretary can help me with, in fact." Grosvenor turned to look at Elizabeth and grinned. His smile pressed into her hair.

She couldn't stop the grimace.

The President's back straightened and he flattened his palms on the table. Imposing. Like he sat when he was making a national address, or issuing orders in the Oval Office. It was the stance that told Elizabeth he meant business, and she had been on the receiving end of it on more than one occasion. "Mr Grosvenor – and you'll notice I call you _mister_ now, not _agent_ , you've lost the right to use that title – why don't you help me out and tell me who you're working for so I can give them a call and we can have a discussion about your grievance, and I can raise a complaint about your methods."

She hadn't expected the President to step right in it, to leave himself so wide open to the obvious attack she knew was coming…

… except Conrad had been a spy, too. He was a master at this game. He hadn't stepped in it, had he? He'd invited Grosvenor to step in it.

Which he duly did. "My methods? You want to raise a complaint about my methods? You're the one who had people tortured in secret. Montaña Casillas, Mr President. It wasn't just rendition flights. There was more. There was a _child._ " Grosvenor was getting agitated, his gun pressing and releasing against Elizabeth's temple, the hand wrapped around her shoulder digging in harshly.

She stayed stock still, removing herself from the equation as much as possible. This was a learning opportunity, and she would learn more if she simply let the man hang himself out to dry.

"If you know so much, why don't you go public yourself?" The President queried, sounding genuinely interested. Then he scoffed. "Let me guess, you can prove nothing."

Grosvenor was quiet a long moment. "This is about a stand, Mr President. It's not just about proof. It's about making a point. It's about honour."

"Being a Diplomatic Security agent is about honour," Russell cut in. "This?" He gestured to Elizabeth and then wider as if to encompass the whole situation. "Not so much."

Grosvenor ploughed on. "It's about truth, and being willing to admit to your mistakes."

"Well, you've got yourself a doozy of a mistake right here."

"The next time we speak," Grosvenor said, ignoring Russell's comment, "I want to hear your plan to own up to what happened on Montaña Casillas. Or else I'll do it myself. And the Secretary will help me." He glanced back at the clock on the wall. "With any luck, we'll be able to go live in time for the morning news. Three hours for an update."

He cut the call.

The game was on.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The President was conscious that his hands were shaking slightly as he sat at Russell's desk, looking at the dark screen long after Grosvenor had ended their communication.

He was aware of Russell hovering at his back. He wished the man would just give him a minute.

Since when did Russell do what he wanted?

"Mr President –"

"He hit her, Russell." He had no doubt that Russell had been about to say something wise and sensible and pragmatic, but that could wait for now. Conrad spun in his chair to look up at his Chief of Staff, half-hoping for a fight that would give him the chance to let off some steam, but finding instead agreement and compassion that he was unused to seeing on the face of Russell Jackson.

"Yeah, he did."

"We have to get her out of there."

"Yes, we do."

"He can't win."

"He won't." Russell said it with such conviction that Conrad almost believed him. Then Russell said, "We should probably lose that recording." He meant of the call they had just had.

They probably should. Once this incident was over, he hoped that they would be able to lose quite a lot of things. He just hoped that his Secretary of State wouldn't be one of them.

"Sir?"

"Not just yet." He looked towards the closed door that led to a small anteroom where Henry McCord was waiting impatiently, probably still watching the recording of the first call on repeat. They owed it to him to let him watch the new one. The only way they had been able to keep a lid on the man was to promise profusely that they would keep him up to date – with everything, no matter what.

Russell followed the President's gaze and caught on fast. "You think that's wise?"

Maybe not. Henry was going to hit the roof, that was for certain, and the odds that he took his chances with the armed guards and hit the President as well were, Conrad figured, about even. Still. "You want to keep him in the dark?"

"Yes." A beat. "No."

"Let him see the tape, Russell. What happens to it after that is up to you."

If Conrad never saw it again it wouldn't matter. He'd still remember every second.

He'd bet that Henry would remember it too.

* * *

There wasn't much time.

That was the thing that Elizabeth was conscious of as Grosvenor ended the video call. The three hour deadline didn't give her long to fix things.

And the other thing that she was conscious of. Her head was hurting and the muted background ringing in her ears continued; she needed to fix the Grosvenor problem and get out, soon.

Of course she knew that everyone would be working to solve the situation, would be doing everything they could to keep their dirty little secret and get her out, but she was the one in the room with Grosvenor.

As much as she hated to think it, she wasn't entirely sure she could rely on someone else coming to save her. And even if she could, there was no way she was just going to sit there passively and wait. That wasn't how she operated.

She could do something.

She _had_ to do something, to stop herself from going crazy, to keep the rising anxiety at bay. Having a puzzle to solve helped.

"You know, I'm not going anywhere," she said, conversationally, to Grosvenor.

He turned away from the desk to observe her. He raised an eyebrow in query.

"I'm just saying, are the cable ties really necessary?"

They both knew that they weren't. He didn't need the restraints to keep her in the room. It was all about the power of it.

Which is why she wasn't surprised when Grosvenor's only response was to fold his arms across his chest, gun still in one hand, and regard her impassively.

OK, then. At least she tried.

She shrugged and smiled. "Don't ask, don't get, right?" It hurt her bruised cheek to smile. She dropped it fast and tried a different tack. "So, tell me. While we're waiting three hours for the President to tell us what we already know, that he can't meet your demands, tell me about yourself."

"What?"

"Tell me how a guy in your position – a position, I might add, you must have trained for years for – ends up here, taking hostages over something that happened years ago on a remote archipelago in the Indian Ocean?" She pitched her voice carefully, somewhere between curious and casual with just a hint of _what's the big deal._ It was a deliberate ploy, to try and goad him into revealing something by pretending that she didn't give a damn.

Grosvenor was incredulous. "Something that happened?" he repeated. "Something that – you know what happened, right?"

She did. There had been a briefing soon after she became Secretary of State, when the Chair of the Joint Chiefs had come to see her to tell her what had happened on Montaña Casillas. She could still remember the disbelief – the disgust, really – at finding out what had happened there. She remembered asking why she was being told, when it was already over. _In case you need to know_ , had been the answer.

She had read between the lines even then. _In case it ever needs to be fixed_ , was what the Chair had really meant.

Now she had a dilemma. Admit to Grosvenor that she knew and validate what he believed to be true? Or maintain her silence.

Elizabeth decided to gamble. She figured that the truth cost less than a lie. "I know," she answered Grosvenor. She had the urge to tell him that it had been before her time, to separate herself in some way from the errors that had taken place, but that wasn't her job.

"What more do you need to know?" Grosvenor said, as though knowing what happened answered all of her questions.

It answered some of them. She decided to address the most glaring omission head on. "How did you find out? And so help me God if you say it was _sources_." If she was going to be candid, she expected him to be too.

No response.

OK. Silence was better than bluster, and better than a lie. Silence meant he was listening.

"Did someone you know tell you?"

No response: no denial.

"Did you lose someone?" That was the obvious trigger. She took a moment to gauge his response. There was a twitch at his mouth that suggested she was on the right track. "Who?"

She was pretty confident that whoever it was that Grosvenor had lost, it wasn't any of the people who had found themselves landing unexpectedly on Montaña Casillas.

Again, no response.

Elizabeth sighed. "You want me to help you, Grosvenor, but I can't do that unless you talk. Come on." She tried a little joke. "I'm a captive audience."

Nothing.

"I'm willing to listen."

He stared at her and slowly lowered his arms to his sides. She still couldn't tell what he was thinking. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Grosvenor walked over to the other visitor chair and turned it to face her head on. He sat down in the chair, close enough that his knees rested either side of her legs, squeezing against her thighs and boxing her in. He leaned forward. Elizabeth could see the faintest hint of sweat forming at his hairline.

Not as in control as he was making out.

The man was buzzing with barely restrained anger. "OK," he said. "I'll talk."

* * *

He had known it wasn't good from the way Russell had been unable to meet his eye when he entered the room to tell him they'd had another call.

He had known it really wasn't good when Russell declined to leave the room after lining up the video to play, instead electing to stay, his back leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest and his gaze obviously and deliberately averted.

He had known it was properly awful the moment he saw his wife.

Henry hit the pause button as soon as he saw Elizabeth's face. "What happened?" he asked Russell, harshly, aware even as he was saying it that his voice did not sound like his own. _He hit her. Bastard._ Henry wanted to turn and fix the other man with a pointed stare, but he couldn't take his eyes off the bruising that was developing on Elizabeth's face, or the blood that was seeping slowly from her swollen lip. Or the arm across her chest, or the gun, or –

That way madness lay.

"Russell," Henry prompted when the Chief of Staff failed to answer.

"Just watch the video, Henry."

Russell sounded strained and almost – _almost_ – like he might be something approaching emotional. So he was human, after all. The knowledge somehow steeled Henry's resolve. He nodded brusquely and hit the button to play the video. He managed to stay seated throughout the whole thing, which later he would submit was wholly commendable, given the content. Given what he learned.

He understood by the time the video came to an end exactly why the President wouldn't want Montaña Casillas to become public. Rationally, he got it. Rationally. Except he didn't really care so much about that.

As soon as the screen went dark, Henry stood and faced Russell, deliberately looming over the smaller man. "You have to get Elizabeth out of there."

Russell nodded. "We do." He pushed away from the wall and went to the computer, pushing in front of Henry to get at it and blocking his view of the monitor.

"What are you doing?"

"The fewer questions you ask about what I'm doing right now, the better."

"No," Henry protested. Before he could think it through, he had grasped Russell's shoulder and spun the smaller man around to face him, not relinquishing his grip. "I don't care right now about what you're trying to hide, I care about my wife. You're trying to cover your tracks, right? You want that video to go away? Well, first, save her life. Get Elizabeth out of there. Then I'll let you delete whatever evidence of international war crimes that you want."

Russell blustered, covering up what Henry guessed was genuine concern with faux amusement. "You're holding the video hostage."

"Yes."

As soon as Russell had moved towards the computer, Henry had realised that the Chief of Staff was betting on the fact they were never going to go public about Montaña Casillas. Well. If they wanted to get rid of the evidence, they would have to get him back his wife first. That was non-negotiable.

Russell's gaze flicked to the door, outside of which Henry knew armed guards were waiting. No doubt Russell was contemplating the merits of having them come into the room and disable Henry so that Russell could delete the video and start the process of eradicating the evidence. To his credit, all he eventually said was, "OK, then."

He had to double-check. "OK?" He knew that Russell and Elizabeth had reached something of a civil détente in recent months and that he was no doubt genuinely worried about her now, but Henry was still wary of the man's motives.

Russell nodded. "Really, Henry."

Before Henry could probe any further, his phone rang, cutting through the tension in the room and making him jolt in surprise. He let go of Russell, pulled the phone out of his pocked and looked down at the screen.

Stevie.

Oh God, the kids.

He had been so caught up in worry and stress and panic over Elizabeth that he had completely forgotten to call the kids to so much as let them know that their parents were going to be late home.

"Hi, Stevie."

Russell melted away, slipping out of the office quietly with a look of understanding on his face.

"Dad –"

"I'm sorry I didn't call earlier. We were just about to leave but then something came up. I –"

"Dad," Stevie's insistent voice interrupted his non-committal, rambling lie.

Henry shut up, pronto. Something in the way she spoke caught at him. "Yes?"

"Is Mom OK? Where is she?"

How the hell could she know to ask that? "Why do you ask?"

"Have you seen Facebook?"

That threw him. "No… Facebook? What? Stevie – "

"There's a photo on Facebook. Ali found it, stumbled across it."

His daughter sounded like she was moments away from tears. Henry's heart caught in his chest. His kid was upset and he should be there, but his wife was in a life or death situation and he couldn't leave her. _So help me, God_. "What photo, Stevie?"

There was a long pause while Stevie sniffed and hiccupped slightly before she pulled herself back together. "A photo of Mom," she said.

"What." Not a question.

"Are you by a computer?"

Yes, but… "I don't have Facebook."

"Use my login."

"Talk me through it."

He followed his daughter's instructions to find the webpage and log in using her details. He realised it was really, properly serious when she didn't even comment about him knowing her password, or about how she'd have to change all of her security settings after this to make sure he could never access her account again. Instead, all she said was, "It should be at the top of the homepage."

He saw it before she had even finished speaking.

He was going to kill that bastard Grosvenor.

There on Facebook was a picture of Elizabeth as he had seen her in the recording of the video call. Sat in a chair in her office, arms pulled awkwardly behind her back, her face swelling with rapidly discolouring bruising, blood on her lip, her face not quite guarded enough to hide her emotion. How many people had seen it already?

Henry stared at the picture for a long moment. He would have gone on staring at it indefinitely if not for the fact that Stevie started talking again.

"Dad, is Mom in trouble?"

His instinct was to lie, to try and protect his children, but there was literally no point. It was far too late for that. Damn it, he should have called them before now. "Yes," he said, neglecting to go into detail. He was glad it was Stevie on the line, and not Alison who might be more prone to obvious emotion, or Jason who would just be awkward. Then he felt awful for thinking about his kids like that.

"Can you… can you tell me anything?"

"No, I'm sorry, I can't." If only because he didn't want to say anything that might make her worry more.

He heard her swallow. Then she said. "But you're there, right? I mean, you're…"

"I'm at the White House," he confirmed.

"That's good."

He would bet that Stevie was on Facebook too, looking at the photo, looking at the comments that were starting to appear underneath it, reading the almost empty profile of the person who had posted the photo, staring at the caption. _Mr President,_ it said, _the clock is ticking._ It was impossible to tell from a glance at the nearly-empty profile who was the poster of the photo, but Henry knew. He felt his gut clench with guilt at keeping Stevie in the dark.

Maybe if it had just been Stevie, he would have told her more, confided in her, but he had Alison and Jason to think of too. "God, Stevie," he said, "I should be there with you, I should come home, but –"

"No," she said, panicked and adamant all in the same syllable. "You have to be there for Mom. I mean, you have to…"

Thank God she got it. There was no way he could leave. "Yeah," he agreed. "Listen, Stevie, something is happening, and there's going to be an extra security presence outside the house. In addition to the Diplomatic Security." The President's personal aide had come to tell him earlier that back-up was being sent out as a precaution, just until they could confirm that Grosvenor was acting alone. "They might be there already."

There was the sound of Stevie crossing the living room and the soft shush of fabric as she drew back the curtain that covered the wide expanse of the front window. "There are some guys outside in fancy suits and sunglasses," she confirmed. "I recognise one of them from Harrison's detail."

Great, because the sunglasses at night wouldn't be conspicuous at all. Then again, that was good. He wanted conspicuous. He wanted full-on, obvious, in your face protection for the children until this whole thing was over and done with. "Good," he said. "That's good. Stevie, I need you to step up for this, OK? I need you to take care of your brother and sister until Mom and I can come home."

Because they would both be coming home. There was no other option in his mind.

"I will," Stevie said.

"And don't leave the house. Just… stay there, all right? Stay safe. Try and sleep and just… try not to worry." He didn't know why he said it. Of course they would be worrying. "Try and stay off the internet." Fat chance of that, too.

"Mom's going to be OK, right?"

She didn't sound like she was quite finished and so Henry said nothing, absolving him from a potential lie to his daughter.

"I mean, her face," Stevie went on, sounding increasingly agitated.

"Hey, Stevie. I know, honey. I know. The best people in the country are working on this right now, not to mention the fact I don't doubt Mom is as pissed as hell and intent on wreaking havoc on this bastard."

Stevie chuckled but it fell slightly flat, wet like she was crying too.

"The guy isn't going to know what hit him when he's faced with Elizabeth McCord in full-on takedown mode." He had to believe that.

Stevie sounded like she did believe it, and that gave Henry hope. "I know, right?" his daughter said, genuine encouragement in her voice.

"You be good for me," Henry said, overwhelmed with a rush of love for his wonderful, difficult, brilliant eldest daughter. All grown up now. Grown up enough that she could handle this better than he could, could keep the family together while he fell apart in a room on his own in the White House.

"Yeah."

"Look after Ali and Jason." He wanted to be there to hug them all, but that would have to wait.

"Yeah."

"I love you."

"Love you too, Dad."

There was a pause.

"Bring Mom home," Stevie said.

"I promise," he replied.

Then he hung up the phone before he could make any more guarantees, hoping with everything within him that he wasn't going to break the most important promise of his life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks again for all the continued support :)**

 **I can't remember if we've ever met the White House Chief Counsel in the show, so I may have inadvertently replaced them in this chapter…**

 **(If I could humbly ask you to suspend your disbelief as I crash all over actual procedure and realism and basically just Make Stuff Up in an attempt to power us through towards the end, that'd be amazing, thanks!)**

 **Chapter Eight**

It became obvious as soon as Grosvenor started talking that the whole thing was simple, really.

Trouble was it was complicated too.

"I had this friend," Grosvenor said, turning his gun over in his hands, watching his own movements and appearing not to notice the slight jig of his left knee against Elizabeth's leg.

So much she could extrapolate from that one sentence. He _had_ a friend. Past tense. So the friend was most likely dead, especially as he had already as good as confirmed that he had lost someone. Saying _this friend_ was more specific than _a friend_. So it was someone particular and important. The way he said _friend_ wasn't especially loaded, so it was more than likely just a friend and not a lover. She'd guess it was man. And as much as she wished he would, he couldn't keep still, which suggested that it mattered, which suggested that he was feeling a little bit vulnerable.

Join the club.

Elizabeth said nothing, waiting out the silence as Grosvenor deliberated with himself.

"He worked on Montaña Casillas," Grosvenor went on. "He was stationed there a couple of years, mostly doing maintenance work on aircraft, like most of the guys there. But sometimes he got involved with other things, too. Unscheduled flights. Special projects. He was a good patriot, always willing to do what it took to maintain national security. Dedicated to his job."

The following pause was so long that Elizabeth found she just had to break it. "Until he wasn't," she guessed.

Grosvenor looked up from his gun and caught her gaze, that dangerous, slightly wild look back in his eyes. His knees tightened against her thighs. "Until he wasn't," he confirmed. "He wasn't on board with turning the island from a brief pit stop for flights to something more, especially when that accident happened."

He meant the incident with the innocent minor. Elizabeth nodded. "Well, that's understandable."

"The guys in charge on the island were a brick wall, so he raised the alarm with his superiors back in the US. Two days later the operation got shut down."

She wasn't sure how she was supposed to respond. She hedged her bets. "Your friend sounds like a decent man."

Grosvenor laughed, the sound harsh and hollow. It unnerved her, set her adrenaline churning, making her instinctively look down and away. The laughter stopped abruptly. Grosvenor reached out and cupped her face, forcing her to look back up at him. His thumb pressed against the bruise on her cheekbone. Elizabeth bit at the inside of her cheek to hold in this gasp of pain that wanted to escape, but she wasn't quite able to conceal the wince.

"Don't touch me." It was meant to be an order but didn't quite make it all the way. Damn.

He ignored her, pressing his advantage, leaning in close and peering at her curiously. "How do you do it?" he asked, sounding genuinely intrigued.

She wondered if she had missed part of the conversation somewhere. "Do what?"

His gaze flicked around the room before landing back on her. "This," he said accusingly. "How do you do your job, come to work every day, go on television to sell the President's policies and your department's initiatives, act like nothing is wrong when crimes like Montaña Casillas are being committed?"

Elizabeth resisted the urge to point out that Montaña Casillas was over and would not be happening again, certainly not under this President, and definitely not on her watch. Grosvenor's hand was still on her face and he didn't need any more ammunition just now. She opted instead for droll and almost managed it. "A crime's being committed right now," she said, looking at him pointedly. "And I definitely don't like it. But I'm still the Secretary of State."

There were always optics to think about. She could be furious about a decision from the White House, or in vehement disagreement with the President over something, or dismayed by an event like she had been when she found out about Montaña Casillas, but she still had a job to do. She had to make sure she sold her role to the world, no matter what. Her country was relying on that.

Saying it out loud had reminded her. She might be this man's hostage but that didn't change the fact that she was the Secretary of State – and until the President had fired Grosvenor over the video call, he had actually worked for her. It gave her confidence a boost. Ignoring the way it sent flashes of shooting pain up her restrained arms, she shrugged one shoulder with enough force to dislodge the hand from her face. "You worked for me for how long, Peter?"

He settled his hand on the arm of the chair instead. Still too close, but better. "I was on your detail for about six months, Madam Secretary."

"Right." He had joined the detail after Iran, after Fred died and there had been a vacancy. He had been in her house, protected her children, promised as part of his job description to take a bullet for her. She didn't know him as well as she knew some of the other agents, but he had always been good at his job. He had given no sign that anything was wrong, and she didn't think it was just because he was selling his role like she sometimes had to sell hers. No, the man had been genuinely committed to his work. "Up until this little deviance, you were always very dedicated to your job," she said.

He said nothing. He couldn't deny it.

"So what was the trigger?" she asked. She was sure she already knew, but she wanted him to say it. The confession was important.

Grosvenor didn't blink. "My friend is dead."

* * *

President Conrad Dalton had made the mistake of flicking on the television in the outer office to see how things were going down in the Press Room. Russell had hastily called a briefing after the appearance of the photo on Facebook; there was no way that the press corps would accept silence from the White House on the small matter of the Secretary of State being held hostage.

"What exactly am I supposed to tell them?" the Press Secretary had asked, no doubt regretting ever agreeing to take the job in the Dalton administration and wondering if it might not be wise to wear heavy armour to this particular briefing.

"Whatever keeps a lid on things," Russell Jackson had unhelpfully responded. "I'm just glad we've got them all in one room where we can keep an eye on them."

They hadn't told the Press Secretary about the Montaña Casillas angle. It would be much easier for the man to do his job and protect the administration if he didn't have to worry about being creative with the truth when speaking to the press. Plausible deniability could go a long way. As long as he was able to keep all the hacks in their seats, it would be one load off the President's mind.

Of course, that didn't account for all the TV network journalists gathering outside the White House and hot-footing it down to State to run live broadcasts that he was sure Elizabeth was going to go ballistic over once she found out, but it meant they had a handle on at least something.

Or so he had thought, until he switched on the television to see his Press Secretary essentially having the televisual equivalent of a slow-motion road traffic accident up there on the podium live on at least three different networks.

Then again, what had he expected would happen? Put all the reporters in a room during a situation like this and whoever was up on the podium was going to get dragged along the tarmac.

That was a problem for later.

President Dalton turned off the TV set, squared his shoulders and went back into the Oval Office, sparing a small smile for Sherry his personal aide as he passed her desk. He should probably get her flowers for putting up with him, although she would probably prefer a raise.

Russell was waiting for him in the Oval, along with Simone Genting, the White House Chief Counsel. Precisely none of his favourite meetings as President involved the presence of the White House Chief Counsel, and he was sure that this one was going to be the worst yet.

At least he could delay it for a few more seconds. He sat down in an armchair and turned to Russell. "Tell me the developments on our extraction plan."

Whatever happened with Montaña Casillas – and as far as he was concerned, despite what his advisors might caution him, all of the options were still on the table – the one thing he was adamant on was that they had a plan to solve the hostage situation. He was getting Elizabeth out of there if it was the last thing he did as President, and not just because the press corps were currently killing his Press Secretary with questions about it. She was his friend, and he was not afraid to admit that it was personal. He could never forgive himself if he didn't do absolutely everything he could.

Russell had been slumped low into his seat – no doubt his own response to the White House Chief Counsel – but he pulled himself up straight at the question. "There are snipers in position in key locations around the building, Mr President. They were trying to get a sight line into Bess's office but the drapes have been closed and there's no visual, not to mention the bulletproof glass. An armed task force has entered the building and are close to her office but due to the threats Grosvenor made earlier to Mr Moran, they've been told to stay back until ordered otherwise. The FBI are sending a hostage negotiator, but frankly, my money's on just letting Elizabeth have at the guy and good luck to the bastard."

The President concurred. "OK," he said quietly. Then he steeled himself and turned to Simone Genting. This was not going to be pretty. "Simone, I need to tell you something, and then I need you to tell me the likely ramifications if it were to become public knowledge."

Simone smoothed down her skirt and raised an eyebrow, face open and waiting and just a little bit apprehensive. "I can tell this is going to be good."

Five minutes later, the Chief Counsel had given up on politely listening to the story and was instead standing behind the sofa, hands clenched against the cushion and a faint aura of apoplexy starting to radiate from her.

"This is why Peter Grosvenor has taken the Secretary hostage," Simone said, like she was just checking that she had heard correctly and was not, in fact, in her worse nightmare.

"Yes," the President answered.

"Oh, I wish you hadn't told me that story," she said. She shook her head. "You're thinking about taking it public?"

"Drink?" Russell offered.

She fixed him with a look that told him what she currently thought of jokes. Russell shut up fast. Simone Genting was one of the few people who could instil genuine fear in the Chief of Staff.

"Yes," the President answered Simone. "I want to know what the implications are."

"The implications… I'd have to spend some time reading over the legalese, examining all the documents relating to the event and determining which specific laws and international treaties have been violated, but off the top of my head, worst case scenario?"

He had earlier opted out of the worst case scenario game in an effort to save his sanity but it seemed it was going to happen whether he liked it or not. "Go on."

"Mr President, how much do you want to see the inside of the Hague?"

Not very much. "Right."

Simone's face softened. "You're working on getting the Secretary out of there, yes?"

"Yes."

"I'd focus on that," she said.

She might not have said it out loud, but it was clear what she thought at the prospect of going public.

Simone stood to leave. "I'm going to pretend we never had this conversation. I'll go out downstairs to avoid the press."

President Dalton stood to delay her exit. "Simone, if we don't do this ourselves, he's going to use Bess to make it public anyway."

"Then I suggest you get her out before that happens."

Russell spoke up. "That's your best legal counsel?"

"Best you'll get."

"And Elizabeth?"

"She's smart."

The President sighed. "Thank God she is."

* * *

As soon as Grosvenor confessed to the death of his friend, he seemed to snap back into himself, the shutters coming back down and the carefully curated mask of control back in place. He stood up but did not step back.

Elizabeth took a moment to steel herself. She had formed in her mind something approaching a strategy, but there were risks attached and Grosvenor had already proved that he wasn't averse to violence. "I'm sorry to hear about your friend," she said gently.

She wanted to stand up, to feel more in control, but he hadn't left her the space and with her hands behind her back it wouldn't have given her much of an advantage anyway. Her heart rate had started to tick up again with the sense that the situation was approaching something of an end game, and she willed herself to keep her anxiety at bay until it was over.

If she was going down, she wasn't going down panicking.

Not that she was planning to go down at all.

Grosvenor's nostrils flared in response to her words.

"What happened? It must be recent."

"He told me what happened with Montaña Casillas one night," Grosvenor said as he looked down at her, hand clenching rhythmically around his gun. "After it got closed down, he was transferred back to Virginia. We met up for some drinks, he got wasted, told me everything."

That must have been at least two years ago. Strange. That was quite the time gap.

"Then six weeks ago he calls me up, says he's getting made redundant. Cutbacks, they said. Unexpected, no notice, he's the only guy in his division getting the cut. No good reason given, but he knows a couple of his buddies from the Montaña Casilllas gig are also in the firing line."

"He figured it was because he blew the whistle," Elizabeth guessed.

"He did his job!" Grosvenor was getting agitated. "He reported a problem and then he went about his job like a good little soldier, working to keep his country safe. All the while they were just waiting for another round of redundancies so they could get rid of him. Give him a payoff, make him sign a secrecy agreement, get rid of the problem. Put him in a position where he could be more easily discredited if he ever tried to make a fuss. And all he'd done was his job. He had no plans to blow this up but they decided not to take that chance on a man with more than twenty years' loyal service."

Grosvenor leaned down, placed his hands on the arms of Elizabeth's chair. His tone was patronising and on the edge. His breath was warm and stale against her face. "You can well imagine, Madam Secretary, how that might make a man angry."

She held her breath, let him have the floor. Let him hang himself. She could sense him starting to unravel. Then all she'd need to do is stick the knife in.

"So he calls me and he tells me that they've pushed him to do what he never would have done if they hadn't been so stupid."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "He was planning to leak it."

"Did you hear about that journalist from the Herald who died in a car crash a couple of weeks ago?"

Her eyes snapped open. She had. Oh God. It started to make sense. Grosvenor smiled at her, lifted one hand to brush a lock of hair back from her face. Her stomach lurched.

"I can see that you have," he said, hand hovering over her hair, his thumb moving rhythmically over the spot where he'd jammed his gun into her temple. "Think you can put the rest together, Madam Secretary?"

She tilted her head back in thought, hoping it would dislodge his hand. It didn't. She wanted to tell him to move back, but she had him malleable now and she didn't want to ruin that. She tried to ignore the feel of his skin against hers and focused on the mental task. "Let me guess, your friend took some papers with him when he left. Department of Defence, right?"

He gave her a look of encouragement.

So she had guessed right. "I imagine he called the Herald journalist to arrange a meeting."

"The journalist never showed up."

"So being a military man, when he got stood up, he figured that he'd been made. He called you?"

Grosvenor nodded and smiled like he was pleased with her. "He called me up, left me a voice message because at the time, Madam Secretary, I was watching you and your husband have date night at Le Station Vieux downtown. I listened to it after. I think he was on a payphone. He said _remember that night in Virginia_. That was when I knew. He knew that he was in trouble. He left me the code to his safe."

Elizabeth had a vague recollection of a couple of her Diplomatic Security agents talking in the car one day a couple of weeks back, about some guy's friend. She hadn't paid it much attention at the time – hadn't thought it was any of her business – but now she was starting to wonder…

"What are you thinking?" Grosvenor asked. "What have you worked out?"

"Did your friend commit suicide?" She was sure that was what the agents had been saying; that one of their number had received some bad news, that his friend had taken his own life and so he was taking the day off work. The conversation hadn't been directed at her and so she'd left it, hadn't said that she'd overheard, hadn't even known which of her agents she needed to pass on her condolences to.

Now she knew.

"Well, it sure looked like suicide," he said.

"You found the body." Imagine seeing that.

He nodded. "But there were no documents about Montaña Casillas in the safe. Conspicuous by their absence. And later that day I read online about the death of the Herald journalist, and so I'm confident, Madam Secretary, that while it surely looked like a suicide, it most definitely was murder."


	9. Chapter 9

**OK so I think I may have cocked up on the very important issue of the layout of Elizabeth's office, but we're in too deep to back out now. Hope this is OK!**

 **Chapter Nine**

To Elizabeth's relief, Peter Grosvenor had let her go and backed up a couple of steps after the revelation about his friend's murder. She now also had the ammunition she needed to break the man down. She just hoped it worked. They were fast approaching Grosvenor's three hour deadline with the President, and she needed to get the job done before then or else it might be too late.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she said.

Grosvenor snorted.

"No, really. You must have loved him a lot."

No answer. No doubt Grosvenor was one of those men who would rather die than publicly admit to their feelings. Although with this stunt, that was all that he was doing.

"It sounds like he was like a brother to you. And finding his body like that. It must have been awful." She meant what she said, and she waited for his involuntary nod before continuing. "So I guess this is all to finish his quest to get the truth out there?"

Again Grosvenor didn't answer but she knew she'd got it right – or at least he wanted her to think she'd got it right. There was more to it than that, but she wouldn't be surprised if Grosvenor didn't even realise it himself yet.

"The President isn't going to go public," Elizabeth told him.

"I think he will to save you."

She shook her head. "No." Of that much she was almost certain. By now Conrad would have had counsel from everyone who could possibly provide it, and they would all surely be telling him the same thing: that it would not be politically expedient to go public with what had happened. He might fight his advisors, might argue more than normal out of loyalty to her, but ultimately he would accept it. It would be suicide not to.

"You don't think you're worth that much?" Grosvenor sounded genuinely curious.

Elizabeth said nothing.

"If he won't go public, then you'll do it while I hold a gun to your head." To make his point, he levelled his gun at her head. He started walking backwards towards the bathroom on the other side of the office. "When I get back he gets one more chance to do as he's told. If not, get ready to go live, Madam Secretary."

* * *

As soon as Grosvenor rounded the corner into the bathroom, no doubt gone to regain his composure or maybe to do his hair before going live on the morning news, Elizabeth stood slowly - and awkwardly due to the damn cable ties, feeling pins and needles bursting down her legs after so long sat tense in one position. Her shoulders were aching fiercely. Her head was spinning.

She had to act fast. Grosvenor no doubt thought he still had the upper hand, especially after she had effectively isolated herself from the President, but she could spin it around on him. He was already affected. He wouldn't have left her alone if she hadn't rattled him. She knew she'd touched a nerve talking about his friend.

For a brief moment, she thought about making a run for the door, but Grosvenor had locked it and pocketed the key. Besides, he had left the bathroom door ajar and she'd bet that he'd be able to make it across the room to stop her before she could yell for help to the taskforce she guessed were hovering somewhere outside.

But her only aim had been to get him out of the room for a minute.

She stepped out of her heels so she could cross silently to the couch where Blake had left the Batak dagger, her gift from the Indonesian ambassador at the reception earlier that evening. Wait, no. That was yesterday now. She was feeling the fatigue of having been up for almost twenty four hours. She sunk down to perch on the edge of the cushion and fumbled around trying to grasp the handle of the dagger, half-sitting on it so she could get enough purchase to pull it out of the leather sheath.

It was awkward, but she managed it, freeing the blade and then turning it to wedge the handle down between the cushions. Then she shifted back so she could slide her hands over the sword, the blade cool against her wrists – and sharp as she accidentally nicked her skin and bit at her cheek to stay silent. She heard the soft pock of blood dripping onto the cushion, felt it running down her wrist. Elizabeth positioned the plastic cable tie against the blade and carefully moved her wrists up and down, trying to weaken the plastic.

It took longer than she would have liked, but the tie gave out and her wrists sprung apart. _Much_ better.

Kind of. There were deep welts around her wrists and a shallow cut along her forearm, and her fingers were tingling as the circulation started to come back, but still. She could fight him now.

"What are you doing?"

Distracted by the relief of having her hands free, she hadn't heard Grosvenor come back into the room. He'd had time to compose himself a little and his eyes were deadly as he aimed his gun at her chest.

Elizabeth still had one arm resting behind her for purchase as she sat awkwardly on the couch, and she reached with it to close her hand around the dagger, pulling it from between the cushions and swinging it round in front of her as she stood up. "Let's talk," she said, every inch the Secretary of State.

"You think you can stop me with that?" Grosvenor scoffed. "I didn't think I'd need to tell you that a knife can't stop a bullet."

No, but it would make him think twice before advancing on her. He'd have to shoot her if he wanted to touch her, and if he shot her she wouldn't be able to give him what he wanted.

"Tell me something," she said, taking a couple of steps back and putting herself behind her desk – where she belonged.

She waited for him to take the bait. "What?" he asked.

"Why now?"

"Were you not listening to what I was telling you?" He said it like she was stupid.

"I was listening. You and your friend have known about Montaña Casillas for years. If you were so certain it should go public, you would have tried way before now. Because you're right. What happened there was awful, and it was covered up. And maybe there's cause for that to come to light. But not now. If you really cared, you would have done it back then."

"He did do it back then. He reported it."

"And then went back to his job. A good little soldier, you said. He cared about doing the right thing but he also cared about national security. That only went out the window when the department screwed him over." Elizabeth watched as Grosvenor started to think it through.

She lowered the arm that held the dagger, keeping it loose at her side but otherwise keeping her stance unthreatening. Grosvenor's gun arm wavered slightly but didn't drop.

"You think you're carrying on his noble cause to make this thing public, but the truth is that he was just pissed. And so are you. This isn't about Montaña Casillas, is it? Not really. You didn't care about that when you first found out about it, you just went right back to work. Just like your friend did. This is about your friend, who you lost, and what was done to him. I think you're right. I think it sounds like your friend was murdered. And I can help you with that, help you get to the truth. But don't you dare pretend to me that you're here about some moral cause when really you're here mostly because your friend died and you're sad about it."

She knew it was a low blow, hated herself even as she was saying the words, even as she knew that they were true. Hated herself for making the events on Montaña Casillas sound cheap, but she was aware that the murder of his friend was worth more to the man. Grosvenor had a genuine grievance, one that she could support, but it wasn't the one he was holding them all to ransom over.

"Put the gun down," she instructed. She was sure she had gotten through to him.

The arm that held the gun wavered again, then strengthened with resolve. Grosvenor's face hardened.

Elizabeth felt her stomach sink. "No, don't. Please –"

He fired.


	10. Chapter 10

**You guys are THE BEST. Seriously, thank you so much for all the kind words and support. And a special thanks to the guest reviewers I haven't been able to reply to personally.**

 **Hope this chapter meets with approval.**

 **Chapter Ten**

A shot had been fired.

That was what they had said, and it was all that they said for the longest five minutes of Henry McCord's life.

He had been sat in the Chief of Staff's office watching Russell Jackson make increasingly irate phone calls to the Department of Defence when the head of the President's Secret Service detail had entered unannounced, without even bothering to knock, to tell them that a shot had been fired down at the State Department and the armed response team had gone into Elizabeth's office and he was very sorry but that was all the news he had right then.

It had been Russell who had blown up at the man. Henry had hardly noticed Russell's frantic anger, which had been loud enough to draw the President from the Oval Office to see what was going on. Instead he had just sat there, slightly numb, heart practically humming it was beating so fast, hearing over and over in his head _a shot has been fired a shot has been fired._

He might have sat there indefinitely thinking that one solitary thought if not for the fact that Conrad had slumped down next to him, looking wearier than Henry had ever seen him, and somehow the look of blank grief on the President's face had made him feel the tiniest bit better, had at least helped him feel slightly less alone for all the time it took Russell to terrorise the Secret Service man into radioing his colleagues at State so that the Chief of Staff could yell at them himself.

Then the woman who came on the line said, "Peter Grosvenor is dead."

And Henry's heart stuttered.

"And Elizabeth?" Russell demanded.

A long pause of radio static. "We have the Secretary." More static. "She's OK."

And his heart started beating again.

* * *

The armed response team stormed into the room three seconds after the shot was fired, just in time for the guy at the head of the formation to see Peter Grosvenor hit the floor, the back of his head torn apart and his blood and bone and brains splattered along the wall.

Grosvenor hadn't fallen straight away, some weird conflation of physics and ballistics keeping him upright for seconds after he had shot away his life, until his gun arm had dropped heavy back to his side and without a functioning brain to counter the effect, he had given way to gravity.

The Secretary of State stood just behind her desk, stock still, staring at the dead man, not reacting at all to the presence of eight armed agents kicking down her door and bursting into the room.

The guy in front approached her warily. "Ma'am?"

She looked at him slowly, but he was sure it wasn't him she was seeing.

* * *

Three minutes later they were standing outside the office. The Secretary seemed have come back to herself slightly when one of the team had shouted out to announce that the room was secure, but she still hadn't said a word. She had stepped around the desk to step back into her shoes and then gone over to pick up her briefcase before heading out the door. Ready to go home for the night.

She was still holding the dagger in her hand.

The armed response guy tried again. "Ma'am, we need to get you medical attention."

Nothing, but she did let him have the dagger, slightly smeared with blood, when he reached out cautiously to take it. He placed it gently on the nearest desk.

"There are paramedics downstairs. I'm going to call them to come up, OK?"

"No." She looked at him properly for the first time. "I want my husband." It sounded very much like an order.

He looked her over. She didn't look like she needed a hospital immediately, although protocol and common sense – and the blood stain seeping through the sleeve of her blouse, among other causes for concern - dictated it. She was still standing, mostly lucid and defiantly adamant. He made a judgement call, figuring that if ever there was a time to suspend the usual rules, this was it. "OK. Come on."

* * *

Elizabeth was aware of hundreds of camera flashes going off as she sat in the back of the car driving away from the State Department. She knew that the reporters would be able to see nothing; the vehicle's tinted windows put paid to that, but she couldn't stop herself from shifting uneasily in her seat at all of the attention.

She could feel the shock starting to wear off, but she could still hear the echo of the firing gun as Grosvenor had wrenched his arm away from aiming at her and moved it up to press the gun into the soft flesh beneath his chin, not even hesitating before he pulled the trigger. It had happened in less than a second.

He had looked right at her while he did it, and she would swear that he had held her gaze even as his brains hit the wall and he did that strange, slow slide down until his body eventually just crumpled in on itself and hit the ground.

She felt untethered, and out of herself, an observer of her own actions. She wanted Henry. He would help. He would ground her, make her feel safe, quell the panic.

The agents were taking her to Henry. That was good.

The agents.

She was in a car full of Diplomatic Security agents and their silence was practically physical.

Elizabeth breathed in slowly. "Guys?" she said softly.

Four heads tilted towards her in acknowledgement.

"I'm really sorry," she said. They must all be in shock, too.

Then, even though it didn't start to cover what she wanted to tell them:

"Thank you."

* * *

It had only been seven minutes since they heard – seven minutes of which he had deeply felt every single, agonising second – and Henry was already wondering what the hell was taking them so long. The Department of State was only a few blocks from the White House. He wanted to see his wife – no, he needed to see his wife. _Had_ to.

He had done his best to keep a lid on his terror but now it was over he could admit that, yeah, he had been properly terrified. He could still feel it, digging inside him like jagged glass. When Blake had told him that Elizabeth was in trouble, Henry had felt like everything had been suspended while all around him the foundations of his world had started to creak. Now he could feel life straining to get started again, but he still couldn't let go of the tension, not until –

"Elizabeth," Conrad said, standing from his seat and then stopping, stilled with uncertainty as to what to do.

There she was.

Standing in the door to Russell's office, backed by four Diplomatic Security agents, Elizabeth immediately sought him out, appearing not to notice the presence of the President and the Chief of Staff. Henry stood and crossed the room to her in four long strides, stopping in front of her and taking in the darkening, swollen bruise on her face and the look of lost despair in her eyes. He lifted one hand and gently touched the small bit of dried blood on her lip, skated his fingers carefully up her bruised face like he could take the injury away from her and into himself. _If only._ Her lip trembled, just the smallest amount, unnoticeable to anyone but him. He let go of the breath he'd been holding and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her firmly against him, careful not to jostle her. He didn't know how much she was hurt.

His wife sank into him, her arms coming around his waist and her head directed to lie on his chest by the soft pressure of his hand against her hair. Henry was vaguely aware of everyone else beating a tactful retreat from the room, the door closing softly behind them. He kissed the top of Elizabeth's head. He opened his mouth to speak.

He didn't know what to say.

They stood like that for long minutes and Henry would have stayed that way for many more, warm and contented and his world slowly righting itself. Elizabeth said, "I killed him."

"What?" His voice was a rumble deep in his chest. He looked down but all he could see was the top of her head. "No, babe. He shot himself." That was what the President's Secret Service man had said.

"Yeah," she agreed. "But if I hadn't…" She sighed. "I just wanted him to admit what it was really about. He could have left in handcuffs, he didn't need to take the bullet."

He was sure that they would be talking a lot about what had happened – and soon, for this was something that couldn't be allowed to fester – but when Elizabeth didn't say anything else, he dropped it temporarily.

Almost. "It wasn't your fault," he said, because he was sure of that much, even as he wasn't sorry at all that the man was dead. "I'm just so glad you're safe now. I love you."

"Love you," she mumbled into his chest, pressing her forehead against his sternum to better feel the beat of his heart.

With her face buried against his chest, she didn't see the connecting door from the Oval Office silently open or the President standing unmoving in the doorway, watching them. Henry caught his eye, and along with the relief and affection that he knew the man felt for his wife, he was also sure he saw something else in the President's expression. He wore the face of a man who'd been let off the hook and his release at having saved his own skin was palpable.

Henry turned away from him. The President's problem might have gone away, but he wasn't the one who'd paid the price.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you to everyone who has read, commented on and alerted this fic along the way. I'm really blown away by the response. Like, completely. Thank you. Last chapter time!**

 **Basically I started writing this fic because I thought that if it was an actual episode (haha, as if), it would lead to some really good fluffy fanfic. Anyway. It's the end now, and I kind of like it the way it is, but if the mood and inspiration were to strike, would anyone be interested in a separate chapter or two of a follow-up type thing (that would probably consist mostly of quite a lot of hugs and similar)?**

 **Chapter Eleven**

Two hours later, having extracted the whole terrible story from a brittle but stoic Elizabeth before sending her home with a tightly-wound and closely protective Henry, President Dalton was alone with Russell, who was at the decanter in the Oval Office pouring them both a very large drink despite the fact that it was almost time for breakfast.

He may as well have just handed over the whole damn bottle.

Russell held out one of the glasses for the President to take. "This is the part where I'd normally say we had a job well done, but…"

"But we didn't do anything," Conrad said. He sounded angry. He was angry, although not at Russell.

"Right." Russell took a seat and then took a drink. "At least we can be grateful."

The President drank some of his own whiskey and looked askance at his Chief of Staff. Of course he couldn't deny that he was glad they'd been able to save the situation – correction, that Elizabeth had been able to save the situation – and with it their secrets, but he wasn't entirely sure that he was feeling very pleased.

"At least Grosvenor was working alone after all," Russell went on. "No infestation of treasonous security agents."

"Just a massive screw-up years ago."

"Right." Russell gave it a moment to let that one lie before continuing. "Elizabeth's gonna be fine."

That much was true, physically at least. She had tried to get out of seeing a doctor, but after the desperate expression of worry had failed to leave Henry's face, Conrad had taken matters into his own hands and called the White House on-call physician to come upstairs, leaving no room for argument. The doctor had patched her up and determined that her concussion was minor and prescribed that her husband take her home and look after her, which Henry would no doubt apply himself to with admirable dedication. But still. "She should never have been involved in the first place."

Wisely, Russell chose not to pick at that thread when tempers were still so on edge. "We need to tell the media something."

Yes, they did. If not for the photo that Grosvenor posted on Facebook in an attempt to goad them into giving into him (and how that had very nearly worked, at least from Conrad's point of view), they might have got away with silence, but the world knew that something had happened and they would be called upon to provide an explanation very soon. "What do you suggest?"

Russell thought for a moment. "We have options. We could play the national security card, refuse to provide any details."

Tempting, but it would never fly. It would only encourage a whole bunch of the nation's best investigative journalists to start digging enthusiastically and unrelentingly until they found something.

"Or we could play the crazy card. Grosvenor was just a troubled man who went insane one night."

"No." Elizabeth would never go along with that, and he couldn't say he disagreed.

"Or we step up and take the hit. A carefully-managed hit." It was clearly paining Russell to even make the suggestion, but the President knew he wouldn't have put it out there unless he was prepared to go with it.

He leaned forward, interested. "Go on."

"Maybe we go public with the rendition thing – _just_ the rendition thing. Say that's why Grosvenor did it. It's not technically a lie, and it's already an open secret that there were flights through Montaña Casillas. We could deal with that if it's handled properly, as long as the extra-curricular aspects stay quiet." Which they would, after Russell had been successful in reacquiring the video recording from Henry McCord and placed some quiet phone calls to some strategically-placed people. "It'd need to be cleared by the White House Chief Counsel and you might want to run it past the Joint Chiefs, but if they say yes…"

"Fine. If Bess agrees." The President's approval rating would take a beating, thanks in part to the guy who occupied his job before him, thanks in part to his own tardiness in shutting things down. Not that he cared about approval ratings right now.

He bet Elizabeth's approval rating would be through the roof.

"Mr President?" Russell's query was surprisingly, unusually hesitant, and the man didn't meet his eye, instead choosing to watch the swirl of amber booze in his glass.

President Dalton shifted in his seat. "Yes?"

The question was quiet and he found himself straining slightly to hear. "Did you know? About the murder of the Herald journalist and Peter Grosvenor's buddy?"

"No." That was the truth. Then, because he knew that the President was often afforded plausible deniability by his staff when less than savoury activities took place, he asked his Chief of Staff, "Did you?"

Now Russell looked him in the eye. "No."

He was sure the man was telling him the truth. "OK."

"But someone does, Mr President. Someone probably pretty important, to sanction that."

The wheels started to turn in his head. He could tell Russell had already thought it through, had already reached a conclusion and was waiting to see if the President arrived at the same solution. "No wonder the Secretary of Defence wanted us to go for the all guns blazing route against Grosvenor."

He knew that he had arrived at the same place as Russell when the Chief of Staff nodded and grimaced slightly. "I made a call to my guy at Defence while you were talking to Elizabeth after she saw the doctor," Russell said. "The Secretary of Defence was the one who signed off on the redundancies that got Grosvenor's friend booted out. And apparently he's been busy holed up in his office all night. I wouldn't be surprised if some documents in his name have a whole load of new redactions by now."

Conrad wouldn't be surprised if there was no evidence anywhere at all to say what had happened to the journalist and the soldier. "Get him in for a meeting first thing, would you? Don't warn him. Just get him here."

Russell nodded. "And exactly how are we going to handle the press until we're ready to publically hang ourselves? They're not going to wait."

Conrad sighed. He was so tired. He couldn't think about it now. He still couldn't rid himself of the images of Elizabeth being threatened by Grosvenor, of the memory of being the most powerful man in the world but not having a clue what to do, of everything going to hell and only stopping just – just – in time, no thanks to him. He owed his Secretary of State a massive thank you, and a massive apology. He owed the same to his friend Elizabeth. First he wanted a few hours of nothing. "I don't know, Russell," he said after a long pause. "We'll discuss it in the morning."

"Mr President," Russell said, his voice tight and weary and long-suffering, "it's already morning."

* * *

It was light outside but the curtains were still drawn as the occupants of the McCord house tried to catch up on the night of missed or broken sleep. Elizabeth and Henry had arrived home just as the sky was lightening – just as the morning news was starting. Elizabeth had no doubt that she was the top story, but at least it wasn't because she was making a live broadcast with a gun against her head.

They had found the kids in the living room, Alison and Jason fitfully asleep on the couch and Stevie sat silently on the floor, chewing on her lip and staring at her brother and sister, taking seriously her promise to look after her siblings even as her face was lined with worry.

Breaking their lifetime rule of never waking a sleeping baby, Henry had gently woken the younger two while Stevie collected herself off the ground to hug her mother and then there had been a big reunion that had passed in something of a blur. Elizabeth had done her duty as a mother to try and pretend that she was fine, everything was fine, there was no need to worry, despite the fact her kids were more than old enough to see straight through that ploy and had never really gone for it even when they were little. Lucky that her kids were also smart; they had sensed that it was not the time to push things and after a few minutes of hugs and tears (theirs) and kisses had let themselves be directed upstairs to bed with a promise that school was not on today and that they would talk more when they were all rested.

Stevie had lingered for a minute as the younger two disappeared up the stairs, sharing a hug and a look of understanding with Henry that made Elizabeth feel like she had missed something. Then her eldest daughter had hugged her again and said, "God, Mom, you're amazing," and Elizabeth had sucked in a shaky breath and felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes.

She'd kept the tears in until the sound of Stevie's footsteps reached her room and the door closed, and then she had turned to Henry and he had stepped up to engulf her in a warm, safe hug and her hot, silent tears had soaked his shirt while tears of his own had landed in the mess of her hair and her husband had been practically vibrating with emotion even as he held her secure, held her safe. She had wrapped her arms around him in return, hoping that she could comfort him too.

And now they were in their bed while the fallout of what had happened could be handled by someone else for a day.

Elizabeth was exhausted. Everything hurt in a vague sort of way but the tiredness – and the strong painkillers that Henry had pressed on her while they changed for bed – had put a dampener on most of it. She wanted to sleep, but she didn't want to close her eyes. If she closed her eyes she saw guns pointed at her chest and felt the phantom swing of a fist towards her face and heard the loud shot of a gun muffled by a man's head as a bullet tore through flesh.

So instead of sleeping she tightly held Henry's hand while his other hand drifted lazily up and down her arm as they lay on their sides to face each other.

"You should sleep," she told him, watching him watch her in the dim light.

"So should you."

Neither of them did. They were quiet for a minute. Then Elizabeth said, "I should have done something."

Henry shifted a little closer, blinked at her sleepily in query. "Done something?"

She hummed in the back of her throat, not sure she could find the words to say what she wanted to say. She should have just… fixed things. Made it so Grosvenor didn't kill himself, fought him harder, known more. She should have done something when the Chair of the Joint Chiefs first told her about Montaña Casillas. She should have made a stand. Stopped this. Instead she had just gone back to work.

Like a good soldier.

"What were you supposed to do?" Henry said, like he could hear her thoughts.

"I don't know."

Her husband swallowed audibly and shuffled over the last few inches to press himself against her, looping his arm around her back and holding her close. "You just… keep doing what you're doing, OK? Doing your best, doing what's right. Believing that things can be better."

She reached up to hold onto his arm, feeling familiar warm skin against her hand. "Yeah," she agreed quietly. She tucked her head beneath his chin. "I was really scared. Mostly of never seeing you again. I tried not to think about it. But…"

Lips pressed themselves against her hair, her forehead. "I know, babe. Me too. God." The arm around her back held her more firmly.

It made her feel a bit better. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

That made her feel better, too. She closed her eyes. With Henry wrapped around her, it wasn't so bad. Maybe she could sleep for a little bit.

Henry's voice was drowsy. "We're totally buying that Indonesian dagger, by the way."

She chuckled. "I think we have to, I bled all over it."

Henry pulled back for a moment and looked at her, his face all serious and sure and loving and lingering fear. "Never again," he said, and she didn't need to ask him to elaborate.

She kissed him carefully, mindful of her lip, then laid back down so she could feel his heartbeat, feel his arms around her, hold him. She blinked, feeling sleep starting to pull her down even as a shaft of light fell onto the bed through a gap in the curtains. "No," she agreed. "Never again."


End file.
